


An Interlude

by voidstained



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Coping, Death, F/M, Implied Relationships, Implied mental illness, Infidelity, Like Heavily Implied, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, how much more implied can i get, i literally say they do it in the butt, laurens interlude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 20:50:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9202739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidstained/pseuds/voidstained
Summary: "I have faced greater wounds than this, Betsy," he would say, wincing as she dabbed gently at a long cut on his arm, a small gardening accident, "even as a child, pain would not be brought by this."





	

**Author's Note:**

> hahaha yeaaaaaah buddy I can't handle real emotions so I'm writing some motherfucking angst lets do it

Rain fell softly onto the roof of the yellow house, a soft dripping pattern being the only accompaniment to the soft scratch of the dip pen against the thick paper, the thick scent of candles soon to be burnt out entirely filling the room, their soft flickers illuminating the room. With this light, Alexander Hamilton focused on the one thing he knew he could properly do- his mind hadn't been quite right after the succession of the war, after the American victory- and was simply dedicating himself to his work, his writing. 

Soft, pale fingers fell onto the heavy and dark wooden door that acted as a portal to his office, those same fingers only hesitating for a moment after knocking before pushing it open. In she walked, nose turning up at darkly scented air and eyebrows raising as the near liquid wax of candles sat in metal holders affixed along the wall and on Alexander's desk. Sighing softly, she hitched her cotton dressing gown ever so slightly in one hand, the same hand that grasped a small bundle of letters. Eliza laid her hand gently on Alexander's shoulder, being kind and gentle as to not disturb him- the last time she had, he'd jumped in fright as he was torn away from the attention of his all-consuming work and broken the small glass container which held the ink to his pen and had ruined the document he had been working on at the moment. With only a momentary delay, his eyes drifted up to her, a small smile playing at the edges of his lips. 

"Eliza, my love.. To what do I owe the pleasure?" His tongue darted out from between his lips to bring moisture to them as he watched her, full attention being given to her- he did not often give her much mind and let her flutter about the house and town independently much to the displeasure of the archaic governing forces in New York city while he tended to his own affairs, primarily his work. 

"Alexander," she ducked her head gracefully, a small sign of respect to him as she kept her hand resting on his shoulder, tendrils of his grown out hair brushing against her knuckles, "there's a letter for you." She let the fabric of her dressing gown fall from her fingers and brought her hand to a rise. Alexander only responded with a soft hum, eyes gazing back down at the desk in front of him, his hand moving towards the ink jar. He pressed the tip of his pen into it, letting the reservoir fill with the dark liquid before glancing back up to her.

"It's from John Laurens," he spoke as he began to move the pen tip along the paper once more, having had noted the simple name of "Laurens" on the paper of the envelope. 

"No- it's from his father." A gentle squeeze to his shoulder.

"His father?" Alexander cocked an eyebrow, pen dipping back into the ink once more, "Will you read it?"

The pressure from his shoulder vanquished as Eliza pulled away her hand, tearing open the thick envelope with haste, careful not to tear the letter inside. Skimming it briefly, she could feel her heart sink as her eyes raised to meet the back of her husband's head, who was content in his work for the day, enthralled with whatever it was that he may have been writing. She knew that there was a story somewhere in the unwritten history of her husband involving the young man, John. She'd heard it in small segments during the times when Alexander would have a drink too many and have no inhibition, loose morals, and an even looser tongue. She would hear it bit by bit as her husband would pace their bedroom before bed, recanting to her the events of his day and eventually slipping into an anxiety fueled ramble of whatever may slip through what lies behind his forehead and out past his lips.

She heard the story of how Alexander had become enthralled with the light freckles- he'd even compared them to constellations such as those that sailors would use to guide them on their journeys home- and how pink those cheeks were and how he enjoyed listening to the stories of a boy growing up on a Southern plantation with wealthy parents and how the hate he saw as a child inspired him to change that as an adult. She heard the story of how her Alexander fell in love once already, once to a man he met in the middle of a war even though he did not ever confess to it directly- she couldn't be mad at him for it, no, not even with her religion, not even with their laws. She couldn't be mad at her husband for loving so freely and so vibrantly. It pained her to know that he was  _not_ hers, even though many years before she had thought the fateful thought of him belonging to her. She simply couldn't find it in herself to be angry regardless of her pain.

So, instead, he listened to his words and heard the story of how they had shared a kiss under the protection of a tent while they heard gunshots in the distance, each of them knowing that the very sound of a gun could very likely be the last sound they would ever hear. She heard the story of the man who never freely admitted to feeling pain ("I have faced greater wounds than this, Betsy," he would say, wincing as she dabbed gently at a long cut on his arm, a small gardening accident, "even as a child, pain would not be brought by this.") stumble over his words as he spoke of the feeling that made his knuckles clench and made him bury his face into a broad and freckled chest while tears pricked at his eyes ("Alexander? Alexander, you must tell me if you need me to stop, I can't bear the thought of hurting you like this.." "No, no," Alexander would force out with a quaver to his voice, "just do not move, just, just, let me adjust to this, yes?") and she heard how he wanted it regardless of the pain he felt at first, how he simply  _wanted._ She would hear how the met one last time after their commander had demanded Alexander take his leave, a tear met reunion. ("I'll see you on the other side of the war.")

"On Tuesday the twenty seventh," her eyes dropped down to the ground as she spoke the words she had just read on the page, "my son was killed in a gunfight-"

Alexander did not hear a word she said past "killed," her voice fading into the background, mixing in with the soft patter of rain on the roof top and the quiet hiss of the dying candles. His breathing stuttered, the melody of his breath suddenly erratic while the beat of his heart began to race. His pen dropped from his hands, the ink splattering over the page he had been writing on- he laughed internally. He couldn't fix he paper and he found that hilarious, for some reason. It was as if the splattering of the ink onto the page was a joke, as if the ink on the page in Eliza's hands was a simple, cruel joke. He wished the joke would end quickly.

Eliza watched her husband with concern, his figure unmoving after she had finished reading the letter aloud to him. She had expected the man to do something, to do anything- to deny it, to begin drafting a response, to rush to pack for a travel to South Carolina. This, though, struck her blood cold- he hadn't reacted at all.

"Alexander?" 

"Alexander, are you alright?"

The room was silent, the last candle flickering out in the soft breeze- Alexander made a mental note to himself that he would have to fix the window pane as soon as he could, it had bee broken for far too long. 

He picked up his pen and began to trace it over the ruined page in a sad imitation of his work. His shoulders shook suddenly as a sharp sob tore though his body, the nib of the pen digging into the page as his posture crumpled. 

"I have so much work to do."


End file.
